Though I love the manicured lawns and tranquil museums of the city, there’s just something special about living in the country. I’m grateful for the long stretches of green, knowing the hills I’ve passed might belong all to one person, or no one at all, or a few contented cows.
Even though I live on a highway, it doesn’t stop my retired neighbor from driving his golf cart a half mile to see his buddy up the road. There isn’t a golf course for 20 miles.
Then there’s the guy 3 houses down who used to ride his horse to the biker bar at the junction so he could drink all he wanted and still get home. The horse knew the way.
One morning I was about to pull out of the driveway when I saw my father parked across the road in his van. He was sitting in front of the little white church where maybe 4 cars arrive each Sunday. The bell still rings at 10am that day. Dad wasn’t alone. Our neighbor to the west was visiting through the van window, one hand wrapped in a rope attached on the other end to a very large bull with horns that curved up past the driver’s side window.
“Hey!” he waved as I slowed to get a closer look. “Just out walkin’ the baby.”
What do you love about where you live?